XXXIII

GRACE

Touch the Sky – Julie Fowlis

The moment her toes passed the threshold of the Music Room, Grace was accosted by Margrove.

"And where in the Great Lion's name have you been?" Margrove questioned, his eyes were a shade of worried black she had not seen before. In his hands sat various sheets of music in disarray, some were held aloft in the air as he spoke. The position would almost be funny if it weren't for the serious set of his face.

"I went riding," Grace shrugged. She took the sheets from his fingers gingerly and inspected the writing upon them, "I'm sorry, I figured you wouldn't need me today."

"You figured-" The Faun spluttered, "You went out riding? With His Majesty so firmly on your case? Tell me, do you enjoy brushes with death?"

Grace eyed her friend humorously – his hairy arms had not moved from their stunned position in the air, "Actually, it was His Majestie's idea."

A single strand of brunette hair brushed over Margrove's stunned face, the tickle just enough to coax him back into his senses, "Pardon?"

"I suppose it was his way of making amends, teaching me to ride," Grace allowed thoughtfully the sheets where compiled and tapped into a neat stack in her hands, "He must consider the risk worth the reward for once."

"Making amends?"

"Has my news made you less articulate?" Grace quipped, "You were the one who said I needed to talk to the King. Well, we talked. I would have thought you'd be happy that things are progressing."

As the Faun's face relaxed so too did his arms, "I am," he defended, "I am also a little confused on how this came to be? What could His Majesty have done to warrant such a trade?"

Anger brushed against Grace's mind in tantalizing strokes as the memories from that morning resurfaced. It was only stemmed by the memory of honesty in King Edmund's eyes as he tried to make amends.

She shook the images away, "What he did is insignificant now."

As if to end the conversation, the stack of music was placed upon the desk and a paperweight atop it. After her first week in the Orchestra, Grace had gone hunting for many heavy objects in order to stop the sheets from coating the room with each breeze and gust. In the end, she'd found nothing worked so well as a rock.

The title of the topmost parchment stuck out to her, "Is this new?"

Margrove's face dropped at the shift in conversation, he leaned forward at her side, his eyes tracing over the inked title of The Ballad of the Frostborn, "It is."

"That's quite the title," Grace remarked.

"It's quite the song."

She looked to her friend, only to find a level of guarded emotion in the crinkles around his onyx gaze.

"Are you not going to slip into a grand speech about the specifics?" Grace prompted.

"If you're going to be cagey about the details then so shall I," Margrove returned.

Grace sighed as her hand instinctively reached for his, "I do not withhold any details out of spite, I promise. I just simply wanted to leave it in the past."

Her friend's face softened as he too relented, "I'm sorry. The song was written out of a dark place in my life, I do not like to speak about it."

"Very well," Grace nodded. She released the Faun's hand with an easy smile, "Then we need not speak about it. May I read it when it's done?"

Margrove joined his hands behind his back inquisitively, "I suppose you may, just leave your thoughts to yourself on this one."

Grace's smile faltered as the seriousness of his expression. The Faun didn't seem worried of her criticism, nor that of the others in the Orchestra, he simply looked sad and tired.

"Of course," Grace agreed softly.

The moment passed quicker than it came, and the usual lively set to Margrove's expression returned once more, "Speaking of which, how are you faring with your homework?"

Grace grimaced, the sheet of The First Gifts of Christmas was somewhere in this room. In truth she'd picked it up twice to read, the second time proving more tenuous than the last. The words were understandable as were the story but there was something about it that made her… uncomfortable.

"I've read over it once or twice."

"What did you think of it?" Margrove pressed with an all too innocent expression.

Grace shrugged, "It is out of my vocal range for starters."

The Faun waved her off, "We can change that. What did you think of the story?"

Her shoulders braced at his line of questioning, for what reason she truly did not know. There was something about the lyrics that just seemed off to her. It is what made her hesitant to finish it in the first place, nevertheless read it a second time.

When Grace did not respond immediately, Margrove continued, "It's been a while since I've last read it, perhaps you may recite it for me, Grace?"

"I've not read it enough for recitation," Grace murmured.

The Faun continued, unperturbed by her unwillingness. He rounded the desk, firmly planting himself on the closest chair, "A retelling in your own words then?"

"I don't know," Grace began, the words unbidden from her lips.

"Come on!" Margrove encouraged as he leant forward and tapped the hard wood of the opposing seat, "Show me what you've learned."

Begrudgingly, Grace seated herself atop the stool and warned, "I'm not sure I've learned much."

The Faun shrugged, "And yet, your face sours at the very mention of the song."

Grace soothed her expression immediately, a little embarrassed that her emotions had been so clear, "I don't know what it is but something about that song rubs me the wrong way."

Margrove did not respond to her comment, he simply waited for her to begin.

With a sigh, Grace acquiesced to his request, "It starts with a race between the Kings and Queens. They are running from some witch."

"Our Kings and Queens were racing against the Witch who encouraged fear," Margrove recited.

"Yes," Grace nodded, "They came across who I can only assume to be Santa Claus?"

"Santa Claus?" Margrove's brow raised quizzically.

Grace shrugged, "The man who brings toys to children at Christmas time. I've never heard him called Father Christmas before but I assume they are one and the same."

Margrove's head tilted to the left, "I suppose that sounds correct."

"Santa gave them gifts, however, they were not ordinary toys I assume. Unless 'a dagger made of bravery' is literally an invisible dagger."

"You are correct, they were not toys. They were tools meant to assist out Kings and Queens in the recovery of Narnia," Margrove affirmed.

"Queen Susan obtained a horn and archery equipment," Grace listed, counting each of the siblings off on her fingertips, "Lucy received a dagger and a healing cordial, High King Peter received a sword and shield and King Edmund…"

The words of the song skimmed across her mind in agitated repetition. What had King Edmund received? She couldn't remember if the song had said as such.

"What did His Majesty receive?" Grace asked the Faun.

"By my knowledge of The First Gifts of Christmas, King Edmund received nothing," Margrove edged. There was a glint of knowledge in his eyes that he chose to withhold, a glint which Grace didn't have the mental space to focus on. The very notion that the King would be singled out was inconceivable to her.

"But that can't be," Grace protested softly, "It hardly seems fair to give the other children gifts and leave him out."

There was nothing worse than the feeling of being unwanted, except for when it was confirmed before your very eyes. Such an act was not unknown to Grace who remembered the cold embrace of that loneliness well.

King Edmund was not alone, however, and judging by the regard his siblings held for him, she doubted they would let such an act slide. No, there was no situation in her mind in which would warrant such an act to go without retribution...

Unless the reason was that King Edmund was not there to receive one.

As the pieces slotted together in her mind, she had the pleasure of watching her expression shift to understanding in the black mirrors of Margrove's eyes.

"He wasn't there was he."

The Faun maintained a stoic expression. It was similar to the one he'd worn days ago when he'd assigned Grace the music, yet somehow it was warmer and kinder, "I do not know what you are talking about."

It was the second time he'd denied her information, however, in around a bout way Grace knew he was trying to tell her something. Memories trickled from their initial conversation on the topic, the sentence 'There are some things we do not speak of' imprinted firmly amongst it. At the time, Grace had seen it as a cold rejection, something she had not expected of her friend. Now, she understood.

Whatever had happened thirteen years ago was simply not spoken about. Either because it was too horrible to voice or because someone highly revered by the Narnians had forbidden it.

Or perhaps even both. The thought came unbidden to her mind and she shuddered at the implication.

The days, months or hours preceding the ascension of the Kings and Queens to their thrones seemed to be filled with trials that no children should ever have to face. For King Edmund's part, Grace wondered exactly what that entailed.

What was so horrible that no Narnian would dare speak it aloud?

What was so terrible that it needed to be silenced in the first place?

What was so vicious that a foreign King would hold it over the Just King years after the fact?

Threads of blood red wove between images in her mind and Grace could feel herself reaching conclusions that she dared not speak aloud. She felt like a mad woman, drawing circles and arrows between characters on a whiteboard as if the whole matter was a conspiracy theory.

The circles and arrows led scenarios of the most horrible nature that if they were true would most likely hinder any source of friendship to the King as she now sought.

She pushed them from her mind firmly, refusing to delve deeper into a hole which would only see her harmed. Besides, had she not promised him only that morning that she would not ask for what he did not wish her to know? Did questioning Margrove not go against the promise she had made?

When Grace returned from the trenches of her mind, she found it clear. Any unwanted thoughts or misconceptions filed away. If she needed to, she knew they could be drawn upon later. An ever-growing list of evidence that King Edmund was not as good as he seemed ready to use at her will.

The thought was quite nasty and Grace reproached herself for it. Fervently wishing that she would never need such a thing.

"I think," She began unsurely, catching the curious dark squint her companion was throwing her way, "That I have learned enough about this song."

The Faun's cheeks stretched into a relieved smile, "Perhaps we might withhold a performance of this song altogether. It is quite old and not to the current taste of the Court nor that of the Kings and Queens."

Grace mirrored the expression of her friend. The cabinet in her mind was shut firmly and locked as she allowed her shoulders to relax, "I am inclined to agree."

Amongst the dim light of the morning, everything was still. No dust swirled with the movement of the breeze or could be seen within a beam of light. It was too early for that.

As the sun clawed its way over the horizon of the Eastern Sea, none stirred within the walls of Cair Paravel… none except two.

Grace trudged behind her guardian, eyes still crusted with sleep as she donned her earthy cloak like a blanket. She hadn't bothered to buckle it at her collarbones, instead opting to hold it together by the sheer will of her fingertips.

Casys clip clopped in front of her steadily. He did not do her the disservice of checking on her progress, they were long past that. Besides, through the fog of tiredness there was a curiosity within Grace which kept her from wondering off.

She was surprised when the Centaur had pounded on her door that morning and ordered her to dress warmly. There was no explanation, no apologies for the intrusion, only the advice that she had been summoned and must answer immediately.

Summoned by who? Casys did not say. Nor were her requests for more information from him answered.

Grace yawned and rubbed at her eyes. In truth, she would usually be up somewhere in the next hour in any case, and with a month of early mornings up her sleeve she'd found it much easier to rise at the crack of dawn.

However, the night before had found Grace neck deep in the pages of Is Man A Myth, a book which she found more interesting the further she got. The candle on her bedside had all but depleted before she realised how late it must be, her eyes sore from both tiredness and the dim light to read by. It seemed that her poor decision had left her with little sleep to speak of and so it crusted stubbornly on her eyelids. Impossible to remove, no matter how she swiped at it.

It was hard to remain alert under its weight and as they walked Grace would often blink and find herself in new surroundings. She wasn't entirely sure how she got there, the soft scrapes of her shoes on the stone floors melding with the brief intervals of dreaming she fell into. Is this how people began to sleepwalk?

The cold morning air brushing over Grace's face turned out to be the remedy she required. It wrenched her mind to alert and caused her teeth to chatter. She pulled the cloak tightly around herself, grateful for the minor shield against the breeze.

"Why on Earth are we out here?" She called to her Guardian.

Casys did not answer, his expression stoic as he continued moving westward of Cair Paravel.

Grace had never been in these surroundings before, the unfamiliar landscape making her uneasy as she followed the Centaur forwards.

Perhaps this was it? Was she heading towards the secret prison the Kings and Queens kept underground? If she was lucky, there would be a quick and easy death waiting for her at the end of this walk. If she was not, she might find herself in some dingy cell for the rest of her days.

The dramatic thoughts were shoved to the side, partially due to the anxiety they stoked within her. It couldn't be helped, a lack of sleep and unknown surroundings would make anyone paranoid.

"Are we close at least?" Grace pressed, "I'd like to make it back to bed before my limbs fall off."

Casys shook his head, "Keep your peace, Grace. It will not be for long."

Grace huffed and readjusted her cloak over her shoulders, "How long are we talking here? Three? Five?"

But the Centaur need not reply, for the sight of the Stable rooftops began to peer over the green hillside. Grace gasped and rushed ahead, vaguely noting Casys's laughter as she passed.

She was right, it was the Stables! Built of wood and straw and painted with various intricate works of art. Grace spun on her heels to face Casys, a wry grin on her face, "Why did you not say we were coming here? I would have moved a lot quicker."

"It is not I who requested secrecy," The Centaur returned. He looked past her, his dark eyes zeroing in on the building over the hillside, "I trust you can make the last of the journey on your own?"

There was a similar crustiness in those eyes that reminded Grace of her own, the dark pools of tiredness nearly overshadowed by the bruises that sat between his eyes and nose.

"You go back to bed," Grace ordered, "I'll be fine from here."

Her Guardians grateful smile would have been thanks enough but Casys took it further. In a slow and deliberate movement, he pressed one arm across his chest and bowed.

Grace responded in kind, nearly dropping her cloak in her attempt to curtsey.

The two parted ways; The Centaur heading vaguely back in the direction of the Cair whilst Grace descended at maddening speed towards the warmth and company that lied in the stables.

As she crossed the threshold of the rolling doors, she nearly tripped over the landing. Her yelp immediately making herself known to all beings inside. The simple horses made startled snorts, whilst some of their Talking counterparts peeked their muzzles out of their stalls to look at the clumsy human.

From the furthermost stall on the western side of the stable, came the sprightly form of King Edmund.

He had dressed down that morning; a simple shirt, grey vest, riding pants and boots being his only shelter from the cool weather. Grace looked down at the new dress she was wearing with slight embarrassment, though she supposed that everything she owned was new at this point.

There was a small consolation that the dress was much simpler than the others Queen Susan had ordered made. If this one was ruined, she would not feel as worried of retribution from the beautiful dark-haired Queen.

"Good, you made it," The King nodded. He began unravelling the leather bridle in his hands as he crossed the stable alleyway, "I was beginning to think you'd never show."

"It takes me a minute to wake up," Grace admitted sheepishly, "And to get dressed."

At her comment, King Edmund's eyes lowered. The deep sunlit brown assessing as they trailed from her hair to her toes.

Grace shivered and fought the urge to pull her cloak tighter over her shoulders.

"How are you keeping warm?" She demanded, "It's freezing this morning."

The King provided a strained smile for her benefit, "It was much warmer in Phillip's stall but I have a cloak for the journey ahead."

The journey ahead? Did that mean they would be riding this morning? There was a mixture of dread and excitement as Grace considered the prospect. Honestly, she'd assumed to be summoned in order to groom Maiden before returning to the kitchens for her usual routine.

"We're riding?"

King Edmund turned back to her, now five paces in the direction of Maiden's stall with the bridle in hand, "Of course. I didn't bring you out here just to look at the horses."

"But I have duties in the Kitchen this morning?" Grace protested.

"I sent word that you would not be in today," The King explained, his eyes assured as he looped the leather bridle in his hands, "I hope that is alright?"

Grace stared at him, her mind moving as slowly as the steam that rose from the stable floor, "But the bread?"

A small smile cracked against the King's features, "I think you've made enough bread, don't you?"

Not a single coherent thought passed through Grace's mind as she stared after him. He had returned to his previously laid path towards Maiden's stall, only stopping to usher her forwards once he reached its wooden gate.

"Come on!" He urged in a short whisper.

She did, albeit slower than the King seemed to wish. He was antsy this morning, fingers fiddling with the leather bridle in his hands as he waited to shut the door behind her.

The smooth click knocked Grace into to her senses momentarily, the feeling quickly receding to the warmth and comfort of the inside of the stall. King Edmund was right, it was much warmer in here.

Through the thick fog of her mind, she could recognize his voice but could not pinpoint the exact words spoken. The King moved this way and that, in his element as he coaxed the Mare into first, the bridle and then the tethers to the corners of the stall.

He talked throughout the entire operation, most likely explaining his actions, the reason behind them and the effect they had on the horse. King Edmund was anything but undescriptive.

Instead of focusing on his in-depth instructions – as she should be – Grace found herself focusing on his face. There was so much to it, the lines and appendages moving just so to convey their wielders thoughts and emotions.

In the warm glow of the morning sun, it shone with more than its usual gloomy seriousness. There was some definite excitement and a pride of the knowledge of his teachings. If the act itself brought him half as much joy as teaching it did, Grace could see why riding would be so important to him.

Her eyes continued to trace The King's features, despite the pull towards reality that drifted naggingly in the back of her mind. As much as she disliked to admit it, it wasn't a bad face. A trait she put down to genetics since it seemed all the Kings and Queens had been blessed with beautiful features.

There was something different about the King's beauty, however.

From Grace's impressions, each of his siblings held comforting features; the kind that could put you at ease by their simple presence. There was no strain or pretence between the three, they all seemed an open book compared to the shadow-bound and buckled one before her.

King Edmund held a natural intensity that few of his siblings could replicate. High King Peter had come close on the two occasions she had spoken to him, yet there was always some kind of tell in the set of his face or the glint of his eyes that let Grace know he was testing her.

With the Just King, Grace had no idea. It was part of the reason she had become outraged at finding her original work was for naught. The King certainly had a part to play in the ploy but Grace had become an unwilling participant in being unable to perceive it.

It was infuriating. The moment Grace thought she might finally be catching onto his thoughts he shifted direction. It was as if King Edmund had built a mental tactic in order to keep his enemies on the fritz.

As she stared unseeingly at the spattering of freckles across King Edmund's nose, she realised that might be exactly what he was doing.

"Grace?"

Her eyes blinked back into focus, "Huh?"

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

Nervously, Grace glanced between the bare sandy back of Maiden and the large saddle in his hands, "No. I'm sorry, I get spacey when I'm tired."

The King sighed with disappointment, "I'll saddle her for you today. We'll try this again tomorrow."

Grace nodded, somewhat relieved that he hadn't taken the trouble of chastising her. The behaviour was odd and disconcerting. It made Grace wonder if this was another switch up tactic to keep her on-toed.

"How are you so chipper?" She asked, the words fuzzy amongst the yawn that fought its way past her lips.

The King paused to look at her pointedly, the rear buckle latched in his hands, "It helps when one has a good night's sleep."

Grace returned the look in kind, noting the purplish bruises which were darker than the one she'd seen on Casys's face earlier, "And did you?"

King Edmund returned to the second buckle, his voice light in answer, "It was better than usual."

Grace hummed with suspicion.

When the front facing buckle was fastened the King stepped back to admire his work.

"All done," He commented as he began loosening the Mare's tethers, "Do you think you can get her outside?"

Grace took the offered reins hesitantly, pleased when Maiden did not protest against her grasp, "I can try."

The King's smiled at her encouragingly, "I'll meet you just outside the doorway. Don't let her run off."

With a tug on the leather, Grace began leading her charge out of the stalls. Maiden followed her willingly, the rise and fall of her head with each step moving in comfortable stride with Grace's own.

The air outside was bitterly cold, a thousand knives on each breeze battering against her nose and the safe barrier of her cloak. It chipped away at the last dredges of sleep in her mind, firmly tugging it to alert as her eyes followed her own misty breath.

If horses could feel the cold, Maiden did not demonstrate it. She too stood against the frigid breeze, her hot breath releasing in short puffs that wisped away as fast as the Mare made them.

The only warmth that could be found was that of the sun. Grace could see it now, drenching the highest treetops of the Cair's woods in golden light. It was not yet high enough in the sky to cover the stable with it's warm glow as the walls of Cair Paravel stood firmly between it and the horizon of the Eastern Sea.

What light there was seemed to suffice in bringing the world to life once more for the sweet dissonant whispers of bird calls had begun to reverberate from the branches. There was so many songs, and all of them were so different. It was amazing that such discord could sound so beautiful.

"Would you mind?"

Grace turned; one hand still firmly grasped on Maiden's reins. In the shadowed doorway of the stable stood King Edmund, only now he looked much more prepared for the cooler weather. A cloak of deep leafy green had been draped over his shoulders to stave off the chill, the thick velvet material looking enviously warm. One hand stood to hold the material in place, the other offered a small silver broach which would ensure it stayed there.

Grace felt one of her brows arch soundly at the request, "You're not worried I'll stab you with it?"

The King's hand withdrew on instinct, the peaceful expression he had worn just moments before dissolving immediately into concern, "Well I am now."

An unbidden laugh bubbled past Grace's lips at his expression, "Don't tell me you're scared of being pricked by a needle?"

"You would be too if you saw the face that was wielding it."

Her cheeks widened to a wicked grin as Grace drew closer to the wary King, "Don't worry, there are far less tedious ways to kill you than a needle to the eye."

An awaiting hand bridged the space between them but King Edmund only looked at it through guarded eyes and did not move a muscle.

Grace sighed wearily as she urged her hand forward, "Give it here before we both freeze to death."

There was a moment of hesitation, followed by a very telling dark glare as the King deposited the broach in her hands. Grace caught it easily, the cool silver metal somehow warmer than the air nipping at their skin.

She turned it over in her hands, her keen eyes inspecting the intricately forged and engraved piece of metal work. The broach was in the undeniable shape of a leaf, almost lifelike in its texture and the veins that ran through it. The strip of metal was thin and curved yet seemed sturdy enough to do the job of holding a cloak together.

Grace looped the hard leather of Maiden's rein through one arm – she only needed one short tug to pull the Mare forwards so that she might reach the King. He stood stock still as she approached, not a muscle out of place except for his eyes which followed her every breath.

If she made one move out of place, Grace was sure he would take the broach immediately. She wanted to laugh at him, the serious set of his features and concern in his eyes over a broach of all things.

Gently, Grace released the needle from its holder. The design was quite easy to understand and the movement only required a quick push and glide from her fingertips.

At the sight of something sharp, Maiden stirred at her side.

Grace froze, only allowing her lips to move in an attempt to calm the Mare, "Maiden."

It seemed to work, the beast halting in her attempt to flee from the shiny metal object.

The broach was lowered to her side and out of sight as Grace took the opportunity to loop the Mare's reins around her wrist more securely. All the while attempting to calm Maiden with soft looks and whispers, "It's ok, it's not for you."

Grace returned her sight to the King, pleased to see that he had also relaxed minimally.

Her hands joined his at the haphazardly folded material on his shoulder. It was not done particularly artfully, in fact Grace thought it might unravel as soon as she stuck the needle in it. It would need to be draped correctly in order to avoid it falling off on their ride.

Thoughtfully she looked between the material, her hand atop it and the other which held the unclicked broach tightly and carefully.

She didn't have enough hands.

"Has this fallen into the dirt or anything unsanitary before?" Grace asked as she clicked the needle back into the safe space and held it at eye level to the King.

His thick brows furrowed at her question, "No, why would it have?"

"Good," Grace then firmly tucked the engraved metal betwixt her lips. She would have laughed at his bewildered expression if the movement would not end with the polished metal in the dirt but she did not have the time nor the mobility for any humour at that moment.

Impatiently, Grace batted his hand out of the way. Her hands barely catching the soft material before it fell to the ground. Immediately setting to work tugging it into place.

It was much better when she was finished with it, draped perfectly so that it would not fall off his shoulders and would provide adequate shelter from the frosted air. Grace held it in place with one hand as she deftly released the needle and threaded it into place with her other.

"There," She grinned, stepping back to admire her work.

King Edmund eyed her self-satisfied expression, face torn between apprehension and awe.

"Is it secure enough do you think?" He commented whilst tugging at the material near his throat.

Grace eyed the fold of the green velvet through narrowed lids. In truth, there would be no telling until the King actually mounted a horse. The tips of her fingers felt fuzzy, like a fire had been set on the numb skin. Grace did not know if it was the effect of the icy air or if the Just King had burned her yet again; either way she did not wish to remove them from the warm confines of her cloak to find out.

"Seems fine to me," Grace shrugged.

The King's face stretched in a scarily wide grin, "Good, because today I'm teaching you how to canter."